


Concentric Circles

by IraDeu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, heavily inspired by Borges, screw canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:44:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8749441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IraDeu/pseuds/IraDeu
Summary: This is how it finally happens - their beginning, at their end.





	

SH: I could be fine like this. 

IA: But we both know that's not true. 

 

***

 

They were running. Again. 

They had done this before. They would do it a thousand times again, if they could. This was where they belonged - on the high of the chase, not thinking, not feeling, not _being,_ fading into doing, caught in the flow of _breathe fight run_. 

It's simple. Uncomplicated, unlike  _everything else_ concerning Sherlock Holmes. 

Which is probably why it's a lot less fun, John thinks, now that they're being chased. Morality stretched thin. Stakes too high. 

(the last time that happened Sherlock died, John tried not to think) 

John was good at sharp clean moral lines. He was a soldier. He was _do without thinking, fight, protect._ The safe danger of fighting. 

This was not now, and John was out over his head and drowning, and _Sherlock!_

The web of causes and effects strung together that could be called Fate decided that this was the perfect opportunity to trip John Watson. Call it inattention. Call it karma. 

He falls hard onto wet cobblestone. Hard enough it doesn't feel real. Hard enough to not swear. Hard enough for Sherlock to hear through the rain and adrenaline. 

Sherlock turned around on reflex and realized he couldn't tell if John was conscious. Someone shouted, "Shit! Lost 'em!" in the background. 

That would be Mary. Shit. She'd find them, here. 

John groaned. Sherlock's mind skidded forward, faster than his body. Looked out onto the thousand million billion ways this moment could play out, and found the one out of the chaos he found was most likely. 

What he knew: 

1\. John was, in all probability, going to die here. Too much was conspiring against them - ignoring the fact that he very well could have gotten a concussion, there was the cold, the rain, old injuries, a lack of assistance from anyone in the government (thanks, Mycroft, for dying), guns, Mary. 

2\. Sherlock was absolutely not capable of surviving John's death. 

3\. John had survived Sherlock's death. 

4\. Sherlock was not strong, no matter how much he pretended to be. 

5\. John was okay with that. 

6\. John was okay was good was more than Sherlock ever deserved

7.  _stay on task stay on task goddamn it Sherlock John is dying_

8\. This could not be happening. This could not be happening. 

 

***

 

Sherlock remembers being four and still religious and asking his father how anyone ever expected to have a prayer answered. 

"What do you mean, William? God loves us all." 

"What's love got to do with it?" he had said, impatient. "It's just that what everything causes is already set, that what everything will lead to has already happened, and nobody can reasonably expect to deserve the miracle of having something they ask for to be made to have been created, to alter the chain of things that led up to it." 

His father hadn't understood. "William, you're overthinking it. That's not what religion's about. It's about faith." 

 _Damn faith and damn uncertainty,_ Sherlock had thought.  _I came here for answers._

That had been the last time Sherlock prayed. 

 

***

 

Now, Sherlock is thirty-five, and he his hoping praying  _anything_ that John will be okay, because damn Fate and damn the universe and damn steadfastness to logic and damn his science and damn the both of them for getting into this mess. 

He bent down and grabbed John's hand. 

They had a one-minute lead, though that had been shrinking even before this. The rain soaked into his jacket. He flung it off. Damn the jacket and damn safety. 

"John. John, look at me.  _Look at me._ " 

Actually, if John didn't wake up, then damn everything. 

John blinked as if in pain, slow, dizzy. 

"John, you are not allowed to die." 

Sherlock's voice cracked, and he  _absolutely did not fucking care._

"Am I dreaming?" John's voice trembled, and Sherlock resisted the urge to try and steady it with - 

No.  _You cannot have him-_

John tried to stand and failed. Sherlock grabbed his hands, something, anything, desperate, needy, because damn propriety, they were dying. 

"I hope not." 

(what is a dream? is this even real? your entire life, cracking itself into a pattern like ice from one single instance, your entire life defined by a single moment. guided dreaming, and  _sherlock no one can help you now-_ ) 

John was breathing hard. Sherlock forbid himself from trying to figure out what had happened to John, what the magnitude of the injury was. He was not a doctor, but he knew that it wasn't worth running the numbers. 

"Well, help me up." 

Sherlock pulled John up, helped him stagger to his feet. 

Sherlock could hear their followers (was that Lestrade?) closer, closer, and squeezed John's hand tighter. 

John leaned his head onto Sherlock's chest. 

"I don't think I'll be able to run, Sherlock." Sherlock could feel his breath on skin, and suddenly Sherlock's clothes were _absolutely fucking grating on his every nerve-_  

Calm. Still. Brought back to zero. "I'll get us out. You'll be fine, just stay, just-" 

"I know. I'm trying." John looked at his face and smiled. 

Sherlock realized that he would personally fight God if it meant saving this man's life. 

He set his mind to work on  _save John get home_  and did not think about  _he's still holding your hand he's hurt what if he's not okay what if you get shot this cannot be happening I thought you removed your ability to care so that you could not be hurt like this he stayed for you this cannot be happening this cannot be happening-_

That didn't matter. None of that mattered. Getting John home safe mattered. All else would come later, when they were safe and warm and home. 

Sherlock led John home in back alleys and whispered prayers. 221B was safe, for now, if not forever. 

 

***

 

They got home, alive, together. When Sherlock fiddled with the keys, John leaned against his arm. 

It took Sherlock 4.13 seconds longer than normal to find the key and unlock the door. 

He let John down on the couch and threw a blanket over him. John grunted. 

Sherlock called Molly to let her know that the entirety of Scotland Yard could go fuck itself, then grabbed and ibuprofen (what was enough what was enough was John bleeding what was happening) and a glass of water and gave it to John. 

John took the pill. Sherlock watched. 

"Thank you." 

"Rest." 

"I'm not going to die yet, Sherlock. I promise." 

Sherlock watched John fall asleep, then barricaded the doors and windows. 

Then went and stayed at his side, just in case. 

 

***

 

John woke up at four. Three hours of sleep. 

"Please don't tell me you've been there all night." 

"Okay." I mean, define 'all night'. 

"Sherlock-" 

They both stopped. 

Goddamn it, he was  _beautiful._

Sherlock tried not to reflect on the complete unfairness of how little time they had. 

 

***

 

He calculated two possibilities: either they would go back to pretending that things were  _completely normal_ , or they could confess now. 

Sherlock went with the third option: dancing around the obvious and hoping praying to a God he didn't believe in that this would work. 

Sherlock went first. "I was worried about you." 

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. "I  _should_ be fine, if you just give me a minute." 

Was that a normal John response? Sherlock doesn't know ( _nerves and adrenaline and do not think about the chance that you two will die today_ ), but he doesn't think so. Which means-

"Are you sure?" 

A pause. 

John's caught on. 

His move, now. "What was it like, for you, when you were gone?" 

Sherlock stopped breathing, for a moment.  _Check._

He decides on "not fun," because how do you explain to someone what it's like to watch the sun go out? 

John blinked. 

Then, angrily, "That's  _it?_ " 

"I don't think the English language is equipped to-" 

"But  _you_ are." 

"I don't know what you mean-" 

"I did what I had to to survive, Sherlock, I-" 

"Stop." 

The air in the room stopped moving, as if in concordance with his wishes. 

John did not. "Do you even understand the effect your death had on me? Can you?" 

Sherlock bit back his customary string of deflective deductions. 

"Do you just... not understand how much we - I, care about you? I was  _destroyed,_ Sherlock." 

"And yet you're here." 

They really do stop, this time, and John and Sherlock make eye contact for a solid who cares before either of them bother to think. 

And then John smiles, in spite of himself, in spite of everything, and he is so beautiful it should be a _crime_. Sherlock sees how pale John has become. Damn biology. Damn death and damn life and damn sentiment and feeling and  _love-_

"I never believed in much, Sherlock, but I believe in you." 

John laughs, a little, and sips at the glass of water Sherlock left for him. 

"And... and I don't want to die on you without telling you some things, first." 

Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe. 

 

***

 

John remembers his parents. 

They weren't technically abusive, depending on your definition. He'll give them that. 

They were just incredibly belittling. Dangerous. Terrifying. Having nothing whatsoever to do with love. 

John used to think the only way to induce immediate, complete, thoughtless obedience was through complete terror, was  _giving up._

He joined the military. His opinions did not change. His friends did, always, constantly. 

Harry married Clara. Harry was disowned. Harry was harassed. Harry was forced to drop out of Uni. Harry started to drink. 

John avoided her, the same way anyone avoids misfortune.

("We're one and the same, John. We've got to look out for each other-" 

"No. I am nothing like you." 

"But we both know that's not true, now, is it? What's his name, this time?"

"Go to hell."

"Oh, come on, John. Safety's never been our thing. What's he like? Is he nice? We both know you deserve that, at least.") 

The world span soundly out of place. 

Then, and only then, was John shot - when life didn't make sense anymore. When he was just going, going  _going,_ because... 

He liked Sherlock. Liked how he looked, liked his mind, liked how something in him seemed so familiar, like they had known each other forever, how Sherlock could make him feel things he thought he killed with Harry, in the military, when he ten crying in his room. 

It was still absolute fear which led to John shooting that cabbie. 

Damn death, John had thought, and didn't push the matter further. 

Sherlock did not change, not in the ways that mattered. A constant. A star, bright and shining and guiding and unreachable and burning out and terrifying. 

They became a team, the two that no-one knew how to handle - the cold genius and his attack dog. 

Until a problem came up that Sherlock and John couldn't solve. 

They buried him. John did not cry. John did not tell. 

John was never much for waiting, never one for being wary of strangers - and besides, wouldn't everyone eventually betray him, in time? 

He met Mary at... it doesn't matter. 

John was  _fine._

Sherlock came back. 

John was not fine, and happier than he had been in years. 

 

***

 

Redbeard was the name of Sherlock's best friend, in their imaginary world of pirates and duels and heroes. His real name was Jim. (no, not like _him,_ but it had still sent a long electric spike down his spine at  _no it cannot be_ ) 

He died at age nine. It technically wasn't Sherlock's fault. 

Sherlock is used to pain. 

He's an outsider, and he's not okay with that, which is why he's mastered the subtle art of emotional repression by age twelve. What you can't feel can't hurt you. 

He styles himself as a sociopath, not a psychopath - because sociopaths are, were, capable of emotion, until they were too far broken. A defense mechanism, grown too big and black and death. 

(i'm not sick i'm hurt somebody help)

And, just when he had given up, settled in for a life devoid of hope, somebody heard. 

 

***

 

John scared Sherlock, a little bit. 

He was dangerous, uncontrollable, dangerously repressed, and Sherlock didn't know what John would do, the first time they met. 

An unknown, Unacceptable. Chaos was  _unacceptable-_

Until John became a constant - if an unexpected one. 

The last thing Sherlock had deserved. 

Maybe his prayers had been answered. Maybe the lines and twists and labyrinths of fate had been kind, for once. Maybe the universe was indifferent and cold and this was just another interpretation of randomness. 

He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't know, and that didn't matter. Damn knowing. Faith was fine. 

 

***

 

"Tell me what?" 

They were dying, John thought, so what was the point of trying to stay alive? Hell, John probably didn't have much time left, even if they weren't found. 

He asked anyway. "Sherlock, what's our chance of us making it out of this alive?" 

Sherlock ran the numbers. 

"About 4%, give or take a bit, depending on how fast you recover and whether we can move, along with sheer luck. We're hitting the point where we should probably try to prolong our lives instead of try to save them." 

They looked at each other. 

Something clicked-

 

***

 

Neither of them remembers who started it. They both do remember that: 

1\. Sherlock started crying about two seconds in, and John had had to stop to tell him  _shh, shh, it'll be okay, you're safe with me, here, now. i won't let anyone hurt you._

2\. John freaked out about second forty-five because he didn't actually believe that this was happening. Sherlock's solution had been to remove clothing. 

3\. Sherlock was clingy when post-coital. John didn't particularly mind. John was a saint. 

4\. There wasn't really a better way to spend the few hours leading up to your inevitable demise cuddling on the couch. 

5."We could have been doing this so much earlier." 

"No, we couldn't." 

They don't argue it past that. If it took this to push them together, they were doomed from the start. 

6\. Holy shit! We're  _gay!_ This absolutely  _cannot_ be fucking happening - 

7\. Sherlock panicking was vocal, frenetic, flurried. John panicking means him collapsing into himself, means him falling into something approaching dissociation. 

8\. An entire lifetime of self-loathing could not be erased with five years of kisses crammed into a few hours, but they damn well could try. 

 

9\. "I love you." 

"I love you too." 

"Stay with me. Forever." 

"I don't know if that's possible, given the current state of our everything." 

"You know what I mean." 

"I'll stay. Of course I'll stay. As long as I can." 

10\. Death was generally at its least terrifying if you loved life. And life was too short, but this was enough-

 

***

 

That was how they found them. 

They do not show mercy. They die together, and in love. 

It's a senseless tragedy. It's the best they could have hoped for. 

Damn everything. Damn life. Damn death. 

Their ashes swirl together in the Thames, drift apart, but, for a single instant - 


End file.
